And The Days Darken
by Fernstrike
Summary: [ON HIATUS] The watchful peace of Menegroth is ending. A young Thranduil, keeping watch on Doriath's borders, witnesses an event that heralds the beginning of the end for the Elven kingdom. As Doriath faces tumult after tumult, Thranduil, his family, and their host, struggle to maintain a foothold in a terrifying, changing world - one that seems poised to ruin them.
1. The Bitter Watch

**A/N:** I've always wondered what exactly the future host of the Greenwood was doing during the First Age. This is my attempt to fill in the gaps. For now, I am intending to go just beyond the Second Kinslaying. We'll see if it grows beyond that. This story is part of a series. It can be read independently, but some important characters and dynamics were introduced in the two previous works, so I do recommend reading them first. You can find the reading order on my profile. I hope you enjoy 'And The Days Darken'!

* * *

Thranduil almost always has the dawn watch at the northern border - or the hour that dawn should usually be, even in the darkness of winter. He is roused from his rest, by a gentle touch on the shoulder from one of his fellow march-wardens. His eyes come to seeing without delay, but there is little to see. In this outpost of the rear guard, the forest is cloaked in heavy shadows, nowhere near the changing skies of dawn. Few stars are alive to illuminate the tops of the trees, and almost no light filters down through the branches under which they rest and wait for their turn at duty. Only the gift of elven eyes allows him to see what he's doing as he rolls up his sleeping skins and furs.

Suddenly, a clear set of three different birdcalls rings out. The whispered exchange of a password precedes the soft patter of feet and hands on the tree, heralding the arrival of the midnight watch. Thranduil and the six other wardens with him rise to greet them, as they pull themselves onto the camouflaged platform of the tree. None are physically weary, but all are begging rest for their long attentive eyes and minds. One of the last to come up is Thandir, and he greets Thranduil with his signature smile: as refined as his wisdom, as fixed as his loyalty, never quite reaching his eyes - and reserved only for those who can respect all of that.

" _Gi suilon_ ," says Thranduil, greeting his cousin warmly. "How was the watch?"

"Unpleasant," says Thandir, removing his bow and quiver and cloak, and sitting down upon the wooden platform. He holds a hand out to Thranduil, who looks at it with confusion, and then clasps it in his. He withdraws his hand almost instantly.

"It's cold," he says, apprehensively. He looks at his own hand, still rosy with warmth from being ensconced within warm furs, and then back at Thandir.

Thandir shrugs. "The days grow dark, and the clouds block the stars out. I didn't realise how cold that can be; otherwise I'd have brought a few extra furs with me. You should, on your watch."

Ordinarily, Thranduil would take this as an observation about the passage of the winter. But this is Thandir, who does not speak idly. His words are strange, and laced with an unclear foreboding. He is older than Thranduil by many hundreds of years, with eyes that hide all he has seen with only a thin veil. And that is why Thranduil feels so unsettled. When wisdom senses danger, it's unwise not to heed the warning.

As Thranduil looks among the other returned march-wardens, he notices how much more subdued they are, with the bounce gone from their step and their laughter mirthless. He looks back at Thandir. Something cold and dark has latched silent claws onto the returned wardens - and Thranduil doesn't like it. He doesn't like seeing light dimmed - there is so little of it in these dark months, anyway. And he feels his instinct to heed the warning slipping away.

"Of course the days grow dark," he says suddenly, speaking with unfounded conviction in his voice. "The year is waning." He doesn't know where the words come from, or from where he draws the surety in his voice. But he is looking at Thandir unflinchingly, affirmatively.

Thandir gazes at him a moment, a strange concern in his eyes - or perhaps it is surprise? Yet before he can say more, he nods slowly and simply says, "Yes."

"Thandir!" hails a voice from across the platform. Thranduil turns to see Galion, his sleeping skins in a messy heap in his arms.

"You took your time waking," calls Thandir, his expression wiped clean of anything abnormal. Thranduil takes it as a cue to put their strange exchange behind them.

He reaches for his own bow and quiver and knives, strapping them on deftly, habitually. He looks down at his sleeping furs, and - after a moment - picks one up and wraps it around his shoulders, covering it with his cloak. He does not acknowledge Thandir watching him. The other wardens have already begun to descend from the platform, and Thranduil hastens to the edge.

"If you don't hurry up, Galion," he says over his shoulder, "I shall stake out the cosy cleft in our post and you'll be forced to find a place for yourself in the nice, barren upper branches."

His friend scoffs, slipping his water skin onto his belt and pulling on his cloak. "Then you shall be closer to the danger."

Thranduil shrugs. "It's for the best I suppose." He holds up his empty bow and pulls on the bowstring, mockingly directing it towards Galion. "You'd never be able to dispatch an enemy in time."

Galion walks right up to him and puts the tip of his finger on the arrow rest. "Neither would you, if you're going to use a bow."

"The two of you will have plenty of time to outwit one another once your watch starts," comes Thandir's voice from behind them. He steps forward to put his hands on their shoulders. "Borders are quiet today. I don't think that's going to change just yet." And he fixes Thranduil with a look of stern surety. Thranduil returns the stare, unblinking and unfazed.

He and Galion slip off the platform and down the tree along with the six other wardens taking the guard for this sector. The forest floor is soft with detritus and old slush. As the forest thins, Thranduil looks up. Now, he realises that the lack of stars stems from the onset of heavy, steel grey snow clouds. He brushes his fingers across the pelt draped over his shoulders, as they trek silently and swiftly through the dark, ancient forest.

* * *

"It looks gloomier than usual," says Galion, pointing ahead.

Thranduil swallows heavily, reluctantly following the direction of Galion's finger to see a part of the Girdle more confused and dark and unpleasant than he has ever seen. He suppresses a shiver. Heand shifts his position in the branches of the great beech tree in which the two of them sit. The rest of the patrol is fanned out across their sector of the forest. All are within calling range - and all are tense, this close to the edge. It seems strange, to feel uncertain despite being within the Girdle. Thranduil understand Thandir's concern more clearly now that he too can feel the weight of the gloaming.

"It's the last frontier before Nan Dungortheb," he says in quiet response, his fist tightening around one of the strong branches. "It's always gloomy. Winter just makes it darker."

"Darkness is consistent, though its strength wanes and waxes."

Before the voice can more than shift the air around them, Thranduil and Galion spin round with bows drawn and arrows nocked, a straight line down the shafts to each of the stranger's eyes. A second later Thranduil lowers his bow, his face hot with embarrassment. Perched in the branches next to them - and having arrived, beyond comprehension, with neither sight nor sound - is the Chief of all Doriath's march-wardens, Beleg Cuthalion. He regards them with great amusement in his eyes - eyes that look much older than his bright face.

"We may have shot you, my lord," says Thranduil, hesitant to meet his commander's eyes.

Beleg makes a disgusted noise and clambers deftly over to them. " _Ai Valar_ , I beg you, desist from using such reverential titles." He sweeps his red hair over his shoulders and rolls his eyes at them. "Inordinate respect is reserved for stuffy courtrooms and council meetings. We're compatriots, not king and subject. Besides, Thranduil, to be to the point, your perception is as sharp as your senses. You recognised who I was as swiftly as you learned of my presence. You wouldn't have shot me."

Encouraged by his praise, Thranduil jokes, "But I can't vouch for Galion, sir."

His companion balks and seems about to rebuke the insinuation, but Beleg laughs brightly. "You see, this is why I come on rounds to visit you all. Nowhere in the court or the high offices of our defence would you hear such a thing. At least, not without an overinflated call to challenge blemished honour."

"Thranduil should count himself lucky we are not in the court, then," Galion scowls, and Thranduil rolls his eyes.

Beleg grins. "Allow me to sit with you a while."

They shift in their positions, resting against wide branches shooting off from the tree.

Galion is speaking as he draws forth his water-skin and offers it to Beleg. "What bring you to this furthest outpost in particular, sir?"

"A desire to bring a warm hand to a pair of cold wardens," he replies, taking the water skin with a grateful nod and partaking only of a delicate sip.

Galion laughs, but Thranduil is silent. Beleg's words hit all too close to his conversation with Thandir. Are any of their hands warm, this close to the Girdle? Thranduil absently brings his hand to touch his face, with the pretence of adjusting his hair, and feels the cold sweep of his fingertips on his cheek. The realisation jars the regular beat of his heart.

"This is certainly a bitter watch," comments Beleg, looking out at the waste between Doriath and Ered Gorgoroth, a broiling, murky tangle of unpleasant bramble and forest and treacherous, hidden marshland.

"It is well manageable," says Thranduil, attempting to reassure. Beleg? Or himself?

"Bitter may be the view," he continues, "but by the grace of Lady Melian, it doesn't enter our hearts."

Thranduil silently curses his tongue, and resolves to say something wiser the next time he speaks. Beleg is a great deal older, wiser and more skilful than either of them. Speaking to him sometimes bears the semblance of a test - but a pleasant one, a challenge of one's own already acknowledged wits. He makes Thranduil want to be a better version of himself. The thought draws him back to lessons held under sunny trees, close to Menegroth, in the years when he'd first dreamed of being a marchwarden.

He'd made a habit of hardly paying attention when Daeron had tried to teach him the use of words, where to place them, how and when to say them. At the time, he'd thought such lessons foolish, unnecessary for a profession that rested on one's ability to nock an arrow in the blink of an eye, or place the sharp edge of a knife exactly where it would do the most damage. Now, in an almost ironic turn of inspiration, he wishes he'd paid more attention. Oropher would probably give one of his rare smirks of amusement, if he could hear these thoughts plaguing his son's mind. Followed by a rebuke, of course, insisting that 'I-told-you-so'

"You said earlier that the darkness waxes and wanes," says Galion, drawing Thranduil out of his musings. "What did you mean by that?"

"I generally perceive evil in the manner of the moon," says Beleg, leaning back in repose, "rather than a day, subject to a wind more or less blustering than the day before, and unpredictable. No, as far as evil is concerned, the changes in its strength are cyclical, and it can hide, but never leave altogether. If it's waxing, then it will not wane until it has breached a new peak. So has it always been. You would do well to heed the bitter watch."

Thranduil meets Beleg's eyes with sudden focus. "So is this a learning experience, or a briefing before a battle?"

Beleg's gaze is clear and unwavering. "I don't see why it can't be both. What do you think?"

"I think you foresee something," he says. He's surprised by the firmness and boldness of his own words. He would never speak like this to his other superiors - people like his father, or Ferion, his chief. Beleg is different.

"I don't see anything for certain," says Beleg, not seeming to have thought anything of Thranduil's bluntness. "But the fortunes of the world have risen for too long. The siege of Angband cannot last." He cocks his head to one side. "You are worried."

"No, sir," he says instantly, affirmatively, forgetting to omit formality. Beleg fixes him with a firm stare, and Thranduil knows he cannot hide the truth. He knew, even before he denied Beleg's assertion. Transparency of his thoughts has only ever been granted to Galion and Thandir, but his respect for his commander - and not least, his piercing stare - loosens the restraint on Thranduil's tongue.

"Well, I do harbour some unease," he confesses. "My mother once told me that evil only ever sleeps. I didn't think it would wake so soon."

"So brief, the idyll of youth," says Beleg, with a fair, sad smile. "Caladwen is wise, and she counsels well. But take heart, young ones. Rather be a march-warden that can hold his own in a fight than an elfling with nothing but a name, when the hordes of Morgoth finally rear their foul heads."

The words are dark, but Beleg's tongue is not idle, and soon the conversation shifts. They sit for a while as he turns the talk to choice gossip of the goings-on in high command, of Thingol's orders filtered down to the marchwarden units with Mablung's wry tongue, of the marches in the West and the Men who dwell near them, and Thranduil begins to hide the worry he has absorbed from both Beleg and Thandir beneath layers of an unfounded surety and a mask of levity.

"It's time I regale some of the other souls on this watch with such tales," says Beleg at last, standing. "I will return to Menegroth in day's time, to report. Have you any messages for your kin?"

"Just greetings to my mother," says Thranduil. "She knows that watches last at least a month, but she still frets."

"And to my father," says Galion. He smiles at Thranduil. "He's the one _setting_ the watches, and he frets."

"Consider it done," says Beleg. His mouth twists in a wry smile. "Nothing for a lucky _elleth_?"

Galion grins. "Not unless you're headed to the eastern border. There's an _elleth_ there by the name of Avornel who Thranduil here -"

"Oh hush, we're not even courting," he mutters, kicking his friend's boot and trying to hide his blush.

 _"_ _Yet,"_ Galion emphasises. "You're not courting _yet."_

"Well, as fate would have it, I am actually heading east next," Beleg says, raising his eyebrows.

Thranduil's mouth drops open and Galion cackles.

"There's really no need," Thranduil insists, kicking his friend again - harder, this time. "He's just playing the fool."

"I'm sure he is," Beleg soothes, his eyes twinkling mirthfully nonetheless.

He begins to descend the tree, then pauses and looks up at them once more. "You're good marchwardens. I'm proud to be serving with you both."

With those words, Thranduil's heart swells with happiness. Beleg is proud of them. He barely registers his commander's parting words as he looks out to the Girdle beyond them.

"This watch may be cold and idle," says Beleg, "but be sure to lose neither heart, nor your wits. _Na lû e-govaned vîn_ ," he grins, and slips down through the branches as noiselessly as he came.

After several silent minutes, Galion speaks. "His words are so weighted."

His voice comes like a needle through the shroud of contentedness surrounding Thranduil, and he feels a strange spark of defensiveness.

"Weighted? With what, being realistic?" he counters.

"No, being as dark and heavy as a storm about to break," shoots back Galion, casting a glance up to the snow clouds still converging above them. "I've lived long enough without the evil suddenly spilling over. I'd rather not believe it will."

"He's not the only one. Thandir is worried too.

"Is he?" Galion doesn't say it like a question, and Thranduil frowns.

"Yes. He knows something is wrong, and he's just telling himself nothing is about to happen. Rather like you, actually, except you don't even want to admit the former."

"You know you sound like your father now."

"Don't," Thranduil snaps tersely.

"Sorry."

"With no intent to slight you," Thranduil says, throwing the slight into his tone if not his words, "Both of them have lived much longer. If you want, Galion, take it as nothing more than caution, and not a doom."

"These old ones make every wise word sound like doom," says Galion, his expression slipping into one of annoyance. "Doesn't matter what I think."

Thranduil crosses his arms. "Do you suppose, then, that war isn't coming soon?"

"Who knows, Thranduil? The world is bigger than us and spins faster than either of us can run. Anything can happen."

"Even bad things borne on dark and heavy storm clouds."

"Fine," Galion snaps. "So, if we trust the doom-counsel of Beleg, we can cast lots and a prediction. Say it comes with the turn of the moon."

"Oh stop this," Thranduil sighs, exasperated. Why are they quarrelling? Is it the fear, the barely suppressed anxiety, pushed onto them by the darkness dwelling idle in the plains before them?

"I trust Beleg," he mutters.

Galion glances at him. "I know you do."

Thranduil senses the underlying tone in his friend's voice, and his face slides into a frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Galion looks genuinely surprised. "Only that I know you obviously respect him, and you listen to what he says. That's it."

"He's earned my respect. Others haven't."

"I know that too. But I'd advise you to be cautious."

"Why? Do you bear gifts of foresight too?"

"Why are you getting so defensive?"

Thranduil stills for a moment, and then looks down in shame. He can't abide being so exposed, but there's no point hiding now. "Because you're the only one who ever perceives this much. Even Thandir for all his wisdom cannot understand it."

"I know, he has that effect," says Galion slowly, treading carefully. "But I would advise much thought before action."

Thranduil looks at him, confused. "You would have me be cautious? Around _Beleg?_ Why?"

Galion looks uncomfortable, but overcome by an obligation to both honesty and responsibility - responsibility to one who still has much use for a mediating hand.

"I have neither the foresight of Beleg," he says at last, "nor the wisdom of Thandir, but I have intuition enough to know that people like Beleg - they're bigger than us. They're always ensnared by some doom or another. And it appeases nothing, Thranduil, to love the doomed."

Thranduil does not get a chance to respond. At that very moment, a deep rumble and a tremor arise from the borderlands, and a breathless cry speeds across the wind from the North. Thranduil snaps his hands over his ears. Beside him Galion lets out a gasp of pain and casts his gaze around. The outcry is ugly, agonising, and unknown. Thranduil feels his balance slipping and clutches at the tree, scrunching up his face against the lingering echoes of the terrible noise.

"What in the world…?" gasps Galion after a few moments. Without waiting for a response, he begins clambering up the tree.

A shout goes up in the trees to either side of them. Thranduil's eyes pick through the branches to seek out the next post. In the distance, almost obscured by the gloaming, the pair of wardens in the tree are clambering up and pointing frantically to the North.

"Oh my goodness," breathes Galion from above him.

Thranduil looks up, surprised to see that suddenly, the sky is brighter - That Galion's face is slightly illuminated by a soft glow, shadows finding their way into the hollows of bone as they flee from the sudden light.

"What is it?" he calls.

"Get up here."

Thranduil clambers up next to his friend, and goes very still. For the second time that day, he reluctantly looks towards where Galion's finger points. A strange orange cloud hovers above the peaks at the farthest edge of Nan Dungortheb, spilling out into the wasteland - a red, deadly sulphurous cloud, illuminating the horizon in a horrible, untrue, forced breaking of the dawn.

"What can it be?" asks Galion, his voice barely above a stunned whisper.

"It looks like fire," Thranduil says, and drops off into silence.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 _gi suilon_ \- greetings (familiar)

 _na lû e-govaned vîn_ \- until our next meeting

As always, any corrections on lore or language are welcome. I expect the next chapter to be up in a week's time. Thanks for reading!


	2. The Messenger

The news comes from a rider out of the north, three days after the strange flames had first licked the distant skies beyond Nan Dungortheb. He is war-ragged, war-weary - a _golodh_.

From his post in the same tree - now sharing it with Thandir - Thranduil picks through the branches to observe the

 _ellon_ halt at the border, bewildered. The strange charms confuse and disorient him. Panic is kindled in his eyes as he casts his head to and fro, seeking a way around. But there is no other way into Doriath.

Pity stirs in Thranduil's heart, but he reminds himself of his duty - protect the borders without any compromise - and of his king's distaste for the Golodhrim. He steels his heart with silence and Thingol's prejudice, and does not move, save to turn to Thandir and ask, "Messenger?"

"I think so."

"What action are we to take?"

Thandir's eyes narrow slightly in thought, still fixated on the _golodh,_ who has now backed away from the Girdle and is staring in fearful anger at the trees.

"You know the King, cousin," Thandir murmurs. "The rules are simple with the Golodhrim. If he's not from the House of Finarfin, he's not to pass."

"And I do not see the sigil."

"Then he is not to pass. We can speak to him as ambassadors and bear his message back to Menegroth."

"Can we do that?"

Thandir raises his eyebrows. "I can."

He descends the tree and motions for Thranduil to follow him. "Beleg may be chief of all Doriath's marchwardens, but I'm chief of the Northern marches, you remember."

A sudden jolt of realisation hits Thranduil, as something clicks in his mind that hadn't occurred to him before. "Is that why I'm in your sector?"

Thandir pauses. "What do you mean?" he asks, appearing genuinely confused.

"So you can keep an eye on me," says Thranduil, working through his thoughts verbally. "Being chief of these marches means you know what's going on all along them and you have a position of command."

"If you're suggesting," says Thandir, landing lightly on the forest floor, "that someone specifically requested your assignment to the northern border, cousin, you'd be right."

Thranduil's eyes narrow. "Who?"

"I did."

Thandir gives Thranduil his rare, veiled smile, and walks off towards the Girdle without waiting for him.

For a moment, Thranduil just stares after him. He had, for a second, suspected Oropher. Set him up on these quiet northern marches, foster a distaste for the march-warden lifestyle if he could. But it was Thandir - he manipulated the placement. Thranduil is the farthest thing from displeased, but he is curious. And the thought sneaks up on him - how indeed was it that there were no interventions by Oropher when he'd stood, back straight and chin jutted forward, and announced his intent to join the marchwardens? How was it the only protest and rebuke was a stiff and silent dinner the day he had been placed on the roster of recruits? Thandir was so respected in their family. If he had made any assurance, promise, agreement, condition or, dare he think it, threat - Oropher would have complied.

He wants to ask Thandir if he had anything to do with how Oropher took the news. However, something about the simplicity of his words - "I did" - makes Thranduil feel that he doesn't need a concrete answer.

He jumps out of the tree, landing soundlessly, and walks briskly to catch up to Thandir. They are almost to the border now. A small barrier of thinly spread trees, tall and gnarled with age, separates them from the _golodh_. They pass through the barrier, and a heavy, cold feeling washes over Thranduil, as if he is stepping through a thick wall of mist. Despite the strange sensation, his mind, wits and ability to move with swift, silent surety, remain unaffected. With his gaze fixed ahead, he stops beside Thandir, behind the last tree before the Girdle falls away at the forest's boundary.

Thranduil does not often subscribe to fear, but a pang of uncertainty enters his heart.

"I know the stories," he whispers, "but tell me honestly. In your experience, are they treacherous?"

"More often than not…" he says softly, "yes."

He motions with one slender hand, and Thranduil nods, nocking an arrow and stepping stealthily to his right, behind one solid, knotted trunk. Thandir steps to the left of the tree.

"Are you going to do all the speaking or do you expect me to threaten him too?" whispers Thranduil.

"Only if you don't say anything foolish," Thandir breathes back.

Thranduil grins. "When have I ever?"

On Thandir's command, they turn round and step quickly forward and through the dense edge of the Girdle. As soon as the sensation starts, it's over, and they are out, bows drawn and trained on either side of the _golodh_ 's head.

The rider's horse whinnies in surprise, and he reins it in before it can rear up completely and throw him off. His hand seems to twitch in the direction of his belt and the wicked curve of the blade that rests there. But as his eyes take in the archers on either side of him, he seems to rethink, settling one hand on the horse's neck and holding the other up in a placating gesture.

"State your purpose and from whence you come," commands Thandir. The _golodh_ hesitates, looking over at Thranduil, who glares back with a heady conviction. He seems to shrink and turns back to Thandir's more moderate stare.

"I come from the host of Fingolfin," he says. He speaks Sindarin, but his accent is unmistakeable. "I bring word that the siege of Angband is broken."

Thranduil is not completely schooled in the art of hiding one's emotions behind the mask of an unaffected face. He can only hope he was able to control the mix of shock and muted despair that suddenly sprung into his heart at the messenger's words. Those were the strange flames beyond the Ered Gorgoroth three days ago. The siege is broken.

"Who broke it?" asks Thandir.

"I will speak to your King," says the messenger, almost defensively.

"You will not pass these borders," growls Thranduil. "And you will answer the question."

The _golodh_ stares at them for a moment, incredulous, then settles his expression into a scowl and speaks. "Morgoth. He spewed fire from the peaks of Angband into the great plains of Dorthonion and decimated our camps. There is naught there now but ash and desolation."

Thranduil has never seen any fire larger than those in lamps or fireplaces, but he already knows that despite the warmth and use of it, he does not like it. He doesn't like the illusion that flame can be controlled, with the full knowledge it cannot be. The image of those mountains flooding the plain with searing, destructive flame makes his hands feel cold. He adjusts his bow, pulling the arrow back just a smidge more.

"Our numbers have been greatly reduced," continues the messenger, eyeing Thranduil's arrow. "The hosts of Morgoth have separated us from our kin in the East. We have retreated to Hithlum."

"If Fingolfin is requesting aid you can be assured that it will not be given," says Thandir, sternly and without pause.

The messenger's face falls in acceptance, and he bows his head. "My Lord bade me expect such a response."

"You would do well to heed that counsel," say Thranduil.

The _golodh_ glares down at him. "And you would do well to heed what I have left to tell you."

"And what is that?" hisses Thandir.

"A host of Sindar is coming to Doriath," he announces. "They weary of the war in the north. Surely your King would not turn away his kinsmen."

Thranduil frowns, annoyance springing up inside him at the _golodh's_ choice of words. The Sindar were fleeing because they were _weary?_

"Tell your King a great host is coming," the messenger continues. "And I would advise you to step up control on your northern border."

"We will advise our own march-wardens," says Thandir evenly. "Our thanks, for the news you have brought."

The _golodh_ looks the two of them over, and with a derisive snort, spurs the horse back to the northwest.

When he is a small dot, fleeing swiftly beyond their field of vision, Thranduil and Thandir lower their bows and walk swiftly back behind the protection of the Girdle.

"You have great perception, Thandir," says Thranduil, as they stand just inside the borderline of trees. "Was he telling the truth?"

"There was never a lie in his eyes. Only anger and disappointment."

"You heard how clever he was to sidestep his own blame," Thranduil mutters. "The Sindar are 'weary' indeed. Weary of having fire and death rained down upon them by the Golodhrim, more like."

"Steady, cousin," Thandir says sympathetically, clasping Thranduil's shoulder. "Focus on what we can change. We must speak to Thingol at once. He needs to know about the host that is coming."

"Menegroth and the forests around it are vast. We can manage."

"Of course. We don't know how many there are, though," Thandir points out. "Or what state they're in. Whatever happens, it's up to the King's decision."

Thandir walks back towards their tree outpost and recovers their waterskins and furs from the lower branches. "You're going to bring the news back to Menegroth."

Thranduil stares at Thandir, aghast. "Me? Why?"

"You saw and heard everything the messenger said," says Thandir, passing Thranduil's things to him. "And I want you to meet the King. You can tell him all of what transpired."

"I - why me?" he asks, baffled. "I'm not in command of these borders, you are. Or even Beleg -"

"I need to maintain command here in case anything else happens, and Beleg is too busy managing all the borders," says Thandir, sternly. "Moreover, you're not just a marchwarden, you're son of one of the king's chief councillors. You will have no problem gaining an audience to deliver the message."

Thranduil is almost certain he understands what his cousin is saying, and he crosses his arms in distaste. "I assume the council will be in session."

"It could very well be."

Thranduil narrows his eyes as his understanding grows. "And I suppose the king will be made to wonder, then, why this councillor's son spends his days crouched in old trees on the northern border."

Thandir understands Thranduil's train of thought immediately and shakes his head. "You will be speaking as a marchwarden giving a report, Thranduil. Nothing more."

"Why did you help me join the recruits?" demands Thranduil. "Was it just so I could bide my time out here, in the hopes that when you tried to manoeuvre me back into Menegroth I might be tired of this lifestyle already?"

"You draw too many wrong conclusions far too quickly," says Thandir, narrowing his eyes. "Do you think I want you to be on the quiet border guard forever? I want you to be able to take responsibility. To lead."

"Lead who, exactly?"

"Thranduil, I thought you'd gotten over this little power play between your vision of your future and your father's, something I have absolutely no part in," says Thandir, and Thranduil instantly feels his blood cool. The sternness and wisdom of his cousin pierces the strange, conspiratorial thoughts muddling his mind, and he feels a touch of shame.

"I simply fear impermanence," he says at last "These last few days have shown that the peace I was raised in is not going to last. So I can never be certain that what I have now - this proof that I've overcome his wishes and achieved my own... I can be certain no longer that it will last."

Thandir's expression changes from annoyed, to understanding. "We can't predict the future, cousin," he says, putting a hand on Thranduil's shoulder. "I can't predict if you'll be with us forever, or if smoother duty will find you. But I'll assure you of one thing. The stone halls of Menegroth will endure far into our future, and so will we. The time ahead of us is long. Don't fear change - it will always cycle back into its natural balance."

"Everyone says that," he mutters, thinking of Beleg's musings on the nature of evil, cycling like the high moon. "What if things change too far beyond fixing - what if there's a new balance?"

"We adapt. We endure." He pats Thranduil's shoulder and leads him onwards through the forest. "Come, I'll see you off."

They trek all the way back to the base for their sector, hoisting themselves up onto the platform and sending two other guards out to take their place. Thandir makes up an excuse for Thranduil's departure, and he understands swiftly the intent - rumour and frenzy are the last things they need. He looks around for Galion to bid him farewell, in the vain hope that he may have come back early from his guard duty. Of course, he's not there. Thranduil reluctantly follows Thandir back down. Some way back, beyond the platform, a few horses are grazing in a small clearing, presided over by a guard. Thandir informs her of their purpose - again, fabricated -and she releases a horse.

"If you aren't returning for some time, please have your replacements ride her back," says the _elleth_ as he mounts the horse. "We've only a few steeds for these marches."

"We don't need that many," says Thandir, perplexed. "Nothing has changed."

"Well, ever since we saw those strange lights, sir, we've been on edge," she admits. "We've no idea what they were. I thought it best we feel prepared."

Thranduil feels a shiver go up his neck. They know what those lights were. They know what's coming. But they can say nothing before reporting to Thingol.

"You are right," says Thandir. His voice sounds sharp in the stillness of the forest. "Best be prepared. Keep a sharp eye."

"Yes, sir."

Thandir leads the horse beyond the clearing, to a path cleared through the trees that almost seems hidden.

"If anyone should question you, show them this," Thandir says, unclasping the golden brooch that holds his cloak at his neck. Engraved upon it are three peaks, ringed in a wreath of beech leaves. The symbol of the northern marchwardens. His cousin's mark of authority.

"Thandir…"

"I have faith in you cousin," he says, flashing his rare smile encouragingly. A stab of fear enters Thranduil's heart.

"What if our kinsmen arrive at the borders before I get to Menegroth?" he asks quietly, turning to look through the darkness of the trees, beyond, to the bewilderment of the Girdle and the terror that lies in the miles beyond.

"They shall have to manage," Thandir murmurs.

"We should have said something. To the others, I mean."

"I know."

He wants to question Thandir's decision for secrecy, but his cousin is already stepping back. He extends a hand from his heart, a tender gesture of farewell. For one terrible moment, Thranduil contemplates the impossible - that the Girdle should break, and more than Sindar would pour through the borders. The hordes of Morgoth have regained the upper hand - how soon until his father's fearful thoughts and predictions came true? How soon until the moon was wrapped once more in shadow, cycling out of the sky and allowing darkness to flourish? Thandir, Galion, his comrades-in-arms…they were so alone and exposed on these borders. If anything were to happen…

"Take care, cousin," he says softly, returning the gesture. Then, before he can speak more on his fear or linger longer in doubt, he spurs the horse onward through the trees, leaving Thandir's pale form to melt away into the shadows behind him.

He rides swiftly, racing the oncoming night that falls ever earlier in these winter months. His heart beats fast and heavy. His horse moves through the trees with practice agility; it knows the way home. It will take about a day's travel to return to Menegroth. Anything could happen in a day. It's not like everything is falling apart - but it cannot be long until it does. With the long journey ahead, Thranduil sets into a steady pace, and his thoughts wander.

* * *

 _Marchwarden recruits train inside Menegroth, but the barracks are far from the halls Thranduil has grown up in, and they must reside there until they are deployed to the marches. As he packs his effects, there is a quiet knock at his door. Turning, he sees Caladwen standing by his door, still clutching the handle._

 _"_ _May I come in?"_

 _"_ _Of course,_ nana," _he says, stepping forward._

 _She casts glances over his belongings. "Do you have everything? Your clothes - your most comfortable boots? Your comb?"_

 _"_ _Yes,_ nana," _he says, rolling his eyes in amusement._

 _"_ _Oh, you must let me fret over you a few moments more," she says, stepping forward to adjust the fine tunic he is wearing to the commencement ceremony. "Look at you. You are about to step forth to defend the realm. I couldn't be more proud."_

 _The words, though said warmly, make Thranduil feel cold. The night before, Oropher had barely spoken during the evening meal. As Thranduil had come to learn, this would only mean that when he himself retired to his chamber, his father would remain in their sitting room, a glass of wine in his hand, brooding before the fireplace. And when Caladwen would sit beside him, and place a tender hand against his cheek, he would, at last, reveal what had been troubling him. Last night was no different._

 _"The world is changing"_ , _he had said, heavy with weariness, as Caladwen looked at him with wide eyes. "The old one will burn in the fires that carve a path through the Neldoreth. Who can defend in the face of fire? I feel it,_ meleth. _The King doesn't wish to hear me, I know this. He is content to remain safe behind the Girdle. He is certain evil will never come to him. I can't be content with such permanence. Nothing stays."_

"Ion-nin _,_ " _Caladwen says, and Thranduil is jolted out of his thoughts. He sees the understanding deepen in her grey eyes. She knows exactly what he is thinking of. Such perceptiveness is in her nature._

 _"_ _Do not fear," she says placatingly. "You are still young. You shall have an age to grow into your own skin."_

 _"_ _That's not what ada thinks," he says bitterly. "And you know it."_

 _"_ _Your father thinks with both wisdom and a fear of failure," she points out, her voice growing sharp._

 _Thranduil stares at her, aghast at her words. A moment later, she, too, realises what she has said and her eyes fill with sadness._

 _"It is the truth," she says softly. "And he would never tell you. But know that this is the root of much that he does. Your father is a very fearful person. In many ways, his thoughts are vital enough in his court, but they do not reflect all of the happenings on the ground. You talk to Galion and Thandir almost every day. Tell me,_ ion-nin - _from what they have told you, do you believe darkness is set to engulf the world any day now?_ "

 _"_ _No."_

* * *

Far off, barely in the line of sight, Menegroth slowly begins to materialise. Here, the stars shine bright, unhindered through the trees. This far from the northern border, Thranduil could pretend that the shadow is rising once more. Despair clutches his heart. This far from the border, who could be blamed for believing Doriath was infallible?

 _The old world will burn in the fires that carve a path through the Neldoreth._ The words had seemed a blatant impossibility before. Now, though? The order was being upended. Suddenly, the future was unmapped. Suddenly, Oropher's words were no longer based only upon paranoia. What should happen when a world built to endure, was prsented the very real threat of being utterly changed? Thranduil sets his eyes on the great halls slowly appearing before him, urging swiftness to his steed. He hadn't believed that darkness would descend upon their world so swiftly. He couldn't have been more wrong.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 _golodh_ \- Sindarin term for Noldor. From what I've read, it is considered derogatory by the Noldor.  
 _ion-nin_ \- my son

Next chapter should be up in about two weeks. However, my midterms for university are coming up, so I can make no promises. As always, any corrections on lore or language are welcome.

Thank you for reading!


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